


you need a big god (big enough to hold your love)

by corvidking



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, You feel me, but like not really though don't worry, florist/tattoo artist au, this sucks im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-02 06:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidking/pseuds/corvidking
Summary: crowleys a florist. aziraphales a tattoo artist. what more do you want from me?





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the terrible dialogue i don't write much and dialogue is my weak point. i am getting better though!  
> this is chapter 1 if people want a chapter 2 they can have it

Crowley wiped his hands on his apron and smiled, hooking the freshly repotted peonies to a string running above the counter. He watched them sway there for a moment, watched them knock against the pot next to them with a satisfying 'clunk'. He did like peonies. He liked all plants, he supposed. That's why Crowley ran a florist. He nodded to himself, satisfied at his vaguely dimwitted conclusion. 

At this moment, as he stood looking tremendously ridiculous smiling and nodding to himself, the little bell above the door rang out. Crowley perked up, hastily brushing dirt and stray clippings off the counter. 

The patron who had just entered was a young woman of perhaps 25. Crowley noticed a lot about her very quickly. Her hair, for instance, was a deep black, and reached her waist. Her glasses, which she adjusted in greeting, were thick circles on her face. Crowley thought they made her look as if she were staring into your soul. She walked purposefully to the counter, setting her hands on the surface and almost glaring at Crowley.  
"Can I help you, Miss?"  
"Device, Anathema Device, and do I hope so. I need flowers for my wife. It's our one year anniversary, you see. For our wedding. It’s our wedding anniversary.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and sighed. “What would you suggest?" She had an American accent, but had evidently been in Britain for a while.  
Crowley blinked and nodded rather hesitantly. "Er, right. Well for a wedding anniversary I would suggest a bouquet of jasmines and...perhaps red geraniums. Obviously the colour scheme is rather pleasing and in Victorian times, jasmine represented faithfulness and geraniums represented sincerity." He explained, leading her through the cluttered shop, picking flowers intermittently and with obvious intent, eventually creating a lavish bouquet. "What do you think?"  
Anathema beamed and took the collection of flowers, looking them over carefully. “They’re perfect!”

They returned to the counter and Crowley wrapped up the bouquet while Anathema rambled about her wife. "-you see she's terrible with computers, but she loves to write. Our house is full of stacks and stacks of her writing because she can't even use a Word document!" She laughed, and Crowley laughed too, mostly out politeness.

"Are you doing anything for your anniversary?" Crowley asked absently, tying a ribbon around the flowers."Oh yes! We're going to get matching tattoos! The place is just across the street actually!" Anathema replied, gesturing excitedly out the door. "Ah." Crowley smiled, finishing the bouquet. "Well, I hope you have a wonderful anniversary! That'll be twenty pounds." He hadn't really talked to the man who ran the tattoo parlor across the street, aside from the occasional glance through the window. He handed Anathema the flowers. Anathema beamed and handed him the money, practically skipping out the shop. She left behind the smell of sage and smoke.

Crowley exhaled and started to clear the counter. His eyes drifted to the window. Through the various vines and flowers that crowded his display, he could make out the tattoo parlor across the street. "Risen Angel Tattoos" was printed across the top in a cursive script. Because of the architecture, which was the same style as Crowley's shop, the parlor looked more like a bookshop or bakery than a tattoo parlor. He peered through the windows of the shop. He couldn't see anyone inside. Perhaps they were closed. 

Crowley had never had a tattoo. For some reason this surprised many people. They seemed to believe that his general demeanour was that of a delinquent. A punk or goth rebel, ready to tear down the bourgeoisie and get lots of tattoos in the process. In reality, Crowley doubted he could spell bourgeoisie, let alone tear it down. Was the bourgeoisie an “it” or “them”? He decided it wasn't worth dwelling on. 

The clock above the door to the back room gave a cheerful "ding!", pulling Crowley out of his peculiarly anarchist train of thought and back into his rather more politically comfortable reality. It was 6 o'clock. Time to go home.

Of course, what Crowley declared as "home" was really just an extension of his beloved shop. Above the shop was a fairly cozy apartment, that had previously been an art studio before Crowley had moved in. The estate agent had done her best to emphasize the "large amount of natural light" and "lots of floor space". Crowley most often kept the curtains closed, and filled the floor space with plants and useless knick-knacks from IKEA. He nearly tripped over a BRANÅS filled with Queen records as he entered. 

Crowley collapsed into his chair and sighed, pulling out his phone and clicking open Grindr. A few messages, all poorly structured and annoying. He set his phone back down and yawned, resting his head on the cold dining table for just a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley is dyslexic fuck you  
> newt is a trans lesbian and her and anathema are married fuck you  
> a million kudos and i'll make aziraphale michael's character in laws of attraction come on boys lets make it happen!


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an introduction to Aziraphale really  
> I'll name the chapters later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so im going on holiday for two weeks tomorrow and I bashed this out super quick so it's notttt grreaaatt  
> thanks for the feedback and stuff I really appreciate it!  
> also my computer screen is broken and I don't when I can get it fixed so updates might be a little slower

Aziraphale flipped the sign on his shop door to “closed” and smiled. He really did like his job. Every day he met the most interesting people in London, he felt. Just this morning had been a young woman who very avidly persisted that she wanted a flaming sword down her spine. Although she had been evidently angry when Aziraphale had insisted she make an appointment, especially for such a large piece, she seemed thrilled that he would do it and shook his hand vigorously. Red dust had blown in with her, as he recalled. That memory reminded him that he had to sweep up.

As he cleaned up he glanced out the window. The florist across the street was clearing up as well, meticulously wiping down his counter and putting cuttings in drawers and composts. Aziraphale leaned on his broom for a moment and watched him. Aziraphale had set up shop just over a month ago. When he had, he’d asked the couple who lived above the shop how long the florists had been there. They had told him they didn’t know, the shop had been there when they moved in, a little under 2 years ago.

The florist himself intrigued Aziraphale. He kept irregular opening hours and had few customers. Despite this he never seemed to be struggling money wise. His shop always seemed well kept and tidy, however full of plants and flowers, and although he didn’t seem to talk much to customers, people always left his shop smiling. Perhaps, Aziraphale mused, he was thinking too much into the life of a man he barely knew. His own train of thought suddenly concerned him, and he frowned, turning away from the window.

Finishing his sweeping, Aziraphale rested the broom in a corner and turning out the lights. As he turned to the door he saw the man watching him. He froze, standing in the darkened parlor, staring back. Aziraphale was sure his heart would jump out of his throat, until the man's eyes slid off him and he disappeared from the shop. Aziraphale shivered and closed his eyes. He stood for a moment, gazing into the dark, as the shop’s lights went out. 

He shook his head and hurried out the door, as if to escape the feeling. Locking up hurriedly, he briskly walked the few blocks to his apartment. It was in an old building, and Aziraphale found the place strangely charming. As he ascended the flights of stairs to his apartment, acoustic guitar music rose softly from a room somewhere in the building. Aziraphale felt a soft, inexplicable smile come about as he unlocked his door, practically falling through the door into the small studio apartment. He only just managed to close the door before collapsing onto his mattress that lay, unsupported by a bedframe, on his floor. 

His apartment was quite small, but Aziraphale always preferred to call it “cozy”. He didn’t have a lot of real furniture, but the place was far from minimalist. Sketchbooks were stacked hither and thither, stray pages flung out across the wooden floorboards. A solitary chair housed most of Aziraphale’s clothes, along with three water-damaged Tolkiens and a battered laptop, that Aziraphale had bought once for the sake of technology, and had never opened. Forgotten mugs of tea sat rather deliberately around his kitchen area, as if waiting to be revived by a microwave. Dishes sat in the sink, and on the draining board, and quite frankly everywhere. Aziraphale rarely had people round, for obvious reasons. When he did the efforts to "tidy up" were minimal. He liked the clutter. He told guests it made the apartment feel more like a home. Guests tended to disagree, however quietly and politely.

Aziraphale hadn’t realised how tired he was until his head hit the pillow. He yawned softly, rolling over and gazing at the ceiling. He'd always meant to stick postcards up there, having visited a friends apartment and being utterly charmed by the art and postcards on their ceiling, but had never quite gotten around to it. Yawning again, he rolled back over, banishing the thought through the open window to his left.

He slept there, unfazed by the fact he was still wearing his work clothes, or the artwork strewn about his sheets that he was probably crumpling. He slept well, and dreamt of flowers in a vast and lonely garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am yet to confirm or deny that Aziraphale is just Michael's character in Laws Of Attraction it is still up to reader interpretation  
> if you wanna help me a) buy a binder and b) fix my laptop consider donating to my ko-fi! ko-fi.com/owencarvour


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wonderful anniversary morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt is called Nellie because it's cUTE and she's trans and I SAY SO!   
> I say trans rights because im trans and you! can't! stop! me!

Anathema Device liked books. She liked writing, and she very much liked Nellie Pulsifer. So when her wife woke her up on the morning of their anniversary, she was more than delighted. 

"Mm, good morning.." Anathema mumbled sleepily, fumbling to find her glasses.   
"Good morning sleepy." Nellie laughed, handing her her glasses. She was sat up in bed, and held a neatly wrapped package in her hands. Anathema blinked and put her glasses on, squinting for a moment as the morning light came into full effect. "Ah, happy anniversary babe." She murmured, kissing her wife sweetly. "Noooo don't kiss me I haven't brushed my teeth yeeettt." Nellie complained, flushing. "Happy anniversary." She pressed the package into Anathema's hands.

Anathema laughed. "What's this then?"   
"It's your anniversary present! Go on, open it!"  
"Alright, alright." She hastily untied the string and ripped open the unassuming but charming brown packaging. Inside was a medium sized green notebook, with a piece of paper simply reading "for Anathema" hastily sellotaped to the front. 

"Nellie this is your notebook! What are you giving me it for?" Anathema had watched her use that notebook for the past year or so. It was for her writing ideas and smaller projects. Or so she said…

Anathema gingerly opened the notebook to the first page. Inside was a single pressed flower, lavender, and a note scrawled on the paper. 

"Anathema. This book is for you. It's for you and it is about you. I hope this satisfies your constant want to read my stories and poetry, at least for a few days. I love you so much, enjoy. - Nellie"

Anathema slowly flicked through the notebook, through poems, short stories, love letters, word collages. "Oh Nellie…." She whispered. Nellie watched her, rather nervously. "D-Do you like it? I mean I'm sure you don't hate it but I wasn't sure if it was in your taste I just wrote a few poems after we got married and it slowly just turned into this whole book-" She squeaked as Anathema kissed her, clutching the book to her chest. "I love it. And I love you!" Nellie sighed in relief. "Thank god." 

Over breakfast, Anathema presented her with the flowers, making an attempt to explain whatever the guy in the flower shop had been getting at. "-something to do with Victorians I think." She mused through a mouthful of cornflakes. Nellie nodded thoughtfully as she searched for something to put them in. "Flower language. Florists are weird like that."   
"This florist was weird." Anathema agreed. "I think he was wearing leather pants."  
"Trousers you mean."  
"Tomayto tomahto. Either way, he did not look like he ran a florist."  
GNellie set the flowers down on the table, housed in a plastic water bottle. "London is just like that. Maybe he was a recovering goth. Like he still had the fashion but- what kind of jobs do goths do?"  
They both thought for a moment in silence.   
"Tattoo artists!" Anathema exclaimed. "That's what. Always tattoo artists."   
Nellie nodded. "You're right. Speaking of…" 

Anathema finished her breakfast and nodded. "Yes, absolutely." The appointment wasn't for a few hours, but they still hadn't decided on what tattoo they were going to get. "I think the guy will be a great help with picking one." Anathema reassured her wife, and partially herself. "When I spoke to him on the phone he seemed very helpful"  
"If you say so…"

Anathema kissed her forehead. "Don't worry about it! It's only a permanent mark on your body!"   
Nellie laughed nervously and sighed. "Alright. Shall I boot up Dick Turpin?"   
"Mm it's not for a few more hours, I think we can go back to bed for a little bit."   
"Well, if you insiiisstt." Nellie smiled as Anathema took her hand and tugged her back to their bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not super pleased with this but take it anyway. sorry it's a bit choppy in pace.


End file.
